cellar of Field-Marshall Lund.

One Private Tom Berry got into the hall, When a big rump o’ beef he made rather small; And Flintergill Billy of the Spuzzer’s Brigade, Got his beak in the barrel, and havoc he made.

The Field-Marshall declared, and his good lady too, They ne’er were attacked with so pleasant a foe; With this all the clansmen gave them three cheers, In return they saluted the bold Buchaneers.

The Benks o’ the Aire.

It isn’t the star of the evening that breetens, Wi’ fairy-like leetness the owd Rivock ends, Nor is it the bonny green fields up ta Steeton, Or the benks of the river while strolling wi’ friends, That tempts me to wander at twilight so lonely, And leave the gay feast for others to share; But O there’s a charm, and a charm for me only, In a sweet little cot on the Benks o’ the Aire.

p. 106How sweet and remote from all turmoil and danger, In that cot, wi’ my Mary, I could pass the long years: In friendship and peace lift the latch to a stranger, And chase off the anguish o’ pale sorrow’s tears. We’d walk aght in t’morning when t’young sun wor shining, When t’birds hed awakened, an’ t’lark soar’d i’ t’air, An’ I’d watch its last beam, on my Mary reclining, From ahr dear little cot on the Benks o’ the Aire.

p. 106

Then we’d talk o’ the past, when our loves wor forbidden, When fortune wor adverse, an’ friends wod deny, How ahr hearts wor still true, tho’ the favours wor hidden Fra the charm of ahr life, the mild stare of ahr eye. An’ when age sall hev temper’d ahr warm glow o’ feelin’  Ahr loves should endure, an’ still wod we share; For weal or in woe, or whativver cums stealin’, We’d share in ahr cot on the Benks o’ the Aire.

Then hasten, my Mary, the moments are flying, Let us catch the bright fugitives ere they depart; For O, thou knaws not what pleasures supplyin’  Thy bonny soft image hes nah geen my heart. The miser that wanders besides buried treasure, Wi’ his eyes ever led to the spot in despair; How different to him is my rapture and pleasure Near the dear little cot on the Benks o’ the Aire.

But sooin may the day come, if come it will ivver; The breetest an’ best to me ivver knawn, When fate may ordain us no longer to sever, Then, sweet girl of my heart, I can call thee my own. For dear unto me wor one moment beside thee, If it wor in the desert, Mary, wi’ me; But sweeter an’ 

 Prev. P 58/83 next